Nowadays, it is a constant struggle not to murder 83% of the people I meet. Like recently, I was forced to watch my boyfriend's ex cuddle up to him and look at him with big, mournful eyes and finally I got her in the bathroom at Denny's and listened to the terror grow in her whimpers as I told her how I was going to smear her mousy little face all over the walls and . . . oh wait, I didn't do that. But I wanted to real bad.

Mostly I want to kill all the stupid people. There are so many of them. They are everywhere. There is no escape. Like the I'm-so-cool-just-ask-me seventeen year old I was forced to be in the company of the other day, who announced, with a light of inspiration and revelation in her eye, that Punk was dead. Or the people who sent us a notice today (the second day of spring, by the way) about how to use our radiator effectively. Helpful hints like: "Don't put things on the radiator! It gets hot!" and "If you close your windows, your apartment will stay warmer!" I don't know if I want to murder the people who sent it or the people who need it.

I have heard that we should be tolerant of stupid people. Feel sorry for them. Not want to kill them. It would be a lot easier to be tolerant of them if they didn't speak. For instance, the other day I met a girl who seemed pretty cool until she started talking, at which point she explained to me that while she USED to have a drink every night, she had since learned moderation, and now every other weekend she got so drunk she couldn't walk, but was sober the other thirteen nights, which was moderation. So I broke a bottle over her head and slit her throat with the ragged glass and . . . no wait, I didn't do that . . . I just wanted to real bad. Anyway, my point is that it's not my fault I get these murderous urges. If all these stupid people would just leave, I could be nice and gentle and peaceful and I wouldn't go home at the end of the night with the palms of my hands all bloody from clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails break the flesh.